


Sleep

by prettyvk



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Teenlock, fic based on art
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-18
Updated: 2013-09-18
Packaged: 2017-12-26 23:13:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/971414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettyvk/pseuds/prettyvk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Sherlock is many things – he has a mental list of all of them, good and bad – but he’s not sentimental. Still...</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> Saw [this art from cinnamonplayground](http://cinnamonplayground.tumblr.com/post/59033440238/teenlock-sleep) and had to write something for it.

They talk until the middle of the night again.

After a while, Sherlock loses track of what they’ve talked about already, what they’ve yet to discuss. He always loses track.

There’s always so much to catalogue, from the way John’s eyelashes curl to the exact amount of pressure he offers when his fingers entwine with Sherlock’s. John grins at times, and Sherlock suspects that some questions he asks, some things he says are repeats. It doesn’t matter. Words don’t matter. Nothing does. Just this. Being here. With John.

Sherlock has never talked that much with anyone. Not ever. He never cared to. Other people are dull. They bore him at hello. John is… different. Not different in the way Sherlock is different, but different just the same. He’s John. That’s enough. That’s everything.

When John starts having trouble keeping his eyes open, Sherlock suggests they get some sleep. Just sleep. Never more than sleep.

Or at least, not yet.

John strips down to his pants – and blushes, his face as red as they are. Sherlock doesn’t comment and slips into loose pajamas. 

In moments, John is already asleep, his hand still curled around Sherlock’s. Sherlock doesn’t need much sleep; he never did. So, instead of closing his eyes, he watches John by the faint light cast by the alarm clock. His face is soft, relaxed – Sherlock would even say beautiful, but only in the privacy of his own mind.

He couldn’t say how long he watches; couldn’t say where the impulse comes from, either. He’s many things – he has a mental list of all of them, good and bad – but he’s not sentimental. Still, he carefully stretches to reach out to the nightstand, picks up his phone, and takes a picture of John’s face.

John shifts, his sleep disturbed by the flash, but he doesn’t wake. Sherlock looks at the picture. It’s perfect. But it’s strangely lacking, too. He ponders that for a little while, and finally figures it out.

He takes another picture. This time, he angles the phone so that he’s in the frame, too. 

Much better.

John mumbles something that sounds like Sherlock’s name. He moves a little closer, until his head rests on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock doesn’t dare move anymore; he’d wake him for good this time. So he stays still, closes his eyes, and joins him in sleep.


End file.
